


Gold

by Liryczna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M, very short work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liryczna/pseuds/Liryczna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh, it is a common knowledge that leading you astray will always be the greatest pleasure of mine.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chaosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosite/gifts).



Dark curls spilled onto his shoulders, utterly beyond any semblance of control. Combed with loving fingers, brushed with affections given freely, it was almost impossible to force them into submission, so he turned and smiled.

“Would you mind giving me a hand?” Findekáno asked, and Maitimo laughed, but reached for his hair all the same. “I am sure the fault is yours somehow.”

“Oh, it is a common knowledge that leading you astray will always be the greatest pleasure of mine.”

Slowly, carefully, Maitimo weaved gold into his hair, as Telperion’s light slowly faded, giving way to the next day.

 

It was cold, so cold.

The air in his lungs seemed to freeze with his every breath, the ice under his feet creaked with every step. If his braids were untangled, he did not notice, even as the gold slipped away, leaving only blackness, as dark as the night without the light. They were alone, he was alone; his love lost in the flames and snow. Only death followed, closer with every passing hour as they fled.

And when he wept, it was not for the fingers that yearned more for the sharpness of the gems than softness of gold.

 

There was not enough air, not enough water.

The land around him was bare, full of sharp rocks and grave silence, wind that howled and bit as it tangled into his hair. Even the beloved light of stars could not reach him here, on the threshold of all evil. His quest was futile, he knew this much, had no hope to give, apart from the reassuring thought that death could not wait long for any who dared to enter here, him least of all.

He took a breath, too shallow and shaky.

Alone in the darkness, Fingon begun to sing.

 

There was no gold in his hair when he died, only fire and blood.


End file.
